Nyra knew the exact moment her mask would betray her.
It was always right before the bells.
The city of Virelyn breathed in time with its towers. When the upper bells rang, the air tightened—citizens straightened their backs, voices softened, footsteps aligned. When the lower bells answered, the streets exhaled again, but only slightly. Virelyn never fully relaxed. Not with so many eyes watching.
Nyra stood in the Third Ring Plaza, surrounded by polished stone and polished lies, her fingers curled tight around the strap of her satchel. The mask rested against her skin, cool and faintly humming, like it was thinking faster than she could.
Don't react, she told herself. Don't feel.
The problem was that Aetherglass didn't care about rules like that.
Across the plaza, the Trial Dais gleamed under crystal lanterns—white crystal for truth, blue for memory, gold for authority. The colors bled together in a way that made Nyra's teeth ache. Too much power in one place always did that. The city liked to pretend balance was permanent. It never was.
A boy knelt at the center of the dais.
He couldn't have been much older than her.
His mask was standard—clear quartz, regulation shape, emotion-neutral. Safe. The kind you could disappear behind for the rest of your life if you followed the rules closely enough.
The Magistrate circled him slowly, robes whispering over stone.
"Repeat your statement," she said, voice amplified by crystal.
"I didn't steal it," the boy said. "I found it in the ash market. I didn't know it was registered."
The lie lantern flickered.
A murmur passed through the crowd.
Nyra felt her own mask pulse—once, sharp and warning. She sucked in a breath and forced her gaze down. If she watched too closely, if she cared, the Aetherglass would respond. It always did.
She hated that about it.
The Magistrate raised one gloved hand. "The crystal will decide."
The white lantern flared.
The boy gasped, fingers digging into the stone as truth-magic pressed down on him. Nyra's nails bit into her palm. She'd seen this before. Everyone had. Trials were public for a reason.
Fear keeps the Rings aligned, her tutor used to say.
The boy screamed.
The sound cracked something open inside her.
Nyra's mask burned.
Not hot—alive. A pressure behind her eyes, like the city itself had leaned in too close. She staggered, catching herself on a nearby pillar as the Aetherglass vibrated against her face.
"No," she whispered. "Not now."
The bells rang.
Upper. Lower.
Her mask split.
It wasn't loud. No dramatic shattering, no cascade of crystal. Just a soft, traitorous fracture that spiderwebbed from her cheekbone to the edge of her jaw.
The hum stopped.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the lanterns flickered.
Nyra's breath hitched as something uncoiled inside her—magic she kept buried so deep even she tried not to think about it. The crack in her mask glowed faintly, a color that didn't belong to any Guild.
The boy on the dais went silent.
The Magistrate froze.
Every crystal in the plaza sang.
Nyra didn't wait to see who noticed.
She ran.
The crowd erupted as she shoved through bodies, apologies swallowed by panic. Someone shouted. Someone grabbed for her cloak and missed. She ducked down an alley just as a warning chime shrilled behind her—high, urgent, unmistakable.
Unregistered magic detected.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she sprinted, boots skidding on smooth stone. The Third Ring blurred past—shops shuttering, crystal signs dimming, citizens pressing themselves flat against walls. No one wanted to be near a breach.
Nyra tore the mask from her face as she ran.
The air felt wrong without it. Too open. Too honest.
She ducked into a stairwell spiraling down into the lower city, lungs burning, and didn't stop until the sounds of pursuit thinned into echoes.
Only then did she collapse against the wall.
Her hands shook as she stared at the mask.
The crack glimmered faintly, like it was pleased with itself.
"Traitor," she breathed.
The undercity smelled like damp stone and old magic. Down here, the crystals were broken or repurposed—light fractured, power rerouted, rules bent until they almost snapped. Nyra pressed her forehead to her knees and tried to think.
You've been seen.
You've been marked.
Unregistered crystals didn't exist. Everyone knew that. The Guilds catalogued every shard, every use, every child bound to power. Anything else was a myth—or a threat.
Nyra had always known hers was different.
She just hadn't planned on the city learning it today.
Footsteps echoed at the top of the stairwell.
Nyra's pulse spiked. She shoved the mask into her satchel and reached for the small crystal knife strapped to her thigh. It wasn't much, but it was sharp, and sometimes that was enough.
A figure appeared in the stairwell's mouth, silhouetted by dim lanternlight.
"Relax," a voice said. Low. Amused. "If I were here to turn you in, you'd already be in chains."
Nyra didn't lower the knife.
The figure stepped closer—a boy, maybe seventeen, mask dark and asymmetrical, etched with fractures that looked intentional. His eyes flicked to her satchel, then back to her face.
"You cracked Aetherglass in public," he said. "That takes talent."
"Or bad luck," Nyra shot back.
He smiled. "Same thing, usually."
Sirens wailed faintly above them.
The boy tilted his head. "You should move. The Crown doesn't like unanswered questions."
Nyra stood slowly, keeping her grip tight.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Someone who knows what happens to girls whose masks don't behave." He stepped aside, gesturing deeper into the undercity. "And someone who thinks Virelyn is long overdue for a memory."
Nyra hesitated.
Then she followed him into the dark.
Behind them, the city rang with crystal and command—unaware that something ancient had just cracked its perfect face.